


Sound Without Vision

by lei_che_sogna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-23
Updated: 2010-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lei_che_sogna/pseuds/lei_che_sogna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's hurtling down the slippery slope. Sherlock meets him at the bottom. For <a href="http://umbralillium.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://umbralillium.livejournal.com/"><b>umbralillium</b></a> 's prompt <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/758386.html?thread=12061554#t12061554">here</a> at Make Me A Monday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound Without Vision

 

If John had to choose one thing he liked most about Sherlock as a person, it wouldn’t be the man’s eyes (described by Molly Hooper, inveterate Mills & Boon addict, as ‘piercing hawk-like eyes of the deepest blue’) or his penchant for danger (which more than one police officer had labelled ‘freakishly uncanny’). It was Sherlock’s voice he liked the best, if ‘liked’ was the word for it.

That voice. Especially when it dipped down, became low-pitched and gravelly, darkly intimate. And the supercilious tone that crept in when he relished telling someone he thought they were much less intelligent than pond scum. There were times when John almost wished Sherlock still smoked. Aside from the cancer and the lowered life expectancy, his voice would be even deeper, huskier, breaking one of his long silences with a somber rumble of sound.

John could come for ages, just thinking about it.

It had begun relatively innocently. As innocent as being deeply aroused by the voice of one’s flatmate could, anyway. On an otherwise dull morning John had been having his customary wank in the shower when Sherlock’s raised voice had come from down the stairs, shouting for Mrs. Hudson to bring more tea. John had come immediately at the sound, and so hard he’d nearly fallen.

That night, lying in bed and for once feeling completely relaxed, John mulled it over. He’d noticed Sherlock’s voice; how could he not? But he’d only seen it as one aspect of Sherlock, and hadn’t thought to isolate it. Before, he’d been completely unaware of the effect it had on him. Now that he’d awoken to the fact, he’d have to ignore it. Sherlock was his friend, and John felt guilty and wrong about what he’d done. He turned over and went to sleep, resolving to ignore his discovery.

  
It crept up on John slowly. At first he found himself staring at Sherlock’s mouth for longer than necessary, watching the way those pink lips shaped each word. Next he was closing his eyes involuntarily when the other man spoke, relishing the cadence of Sherlock’s speech. And soon enough he was logging onto at ‘The Science of Deduction’ late at night, hearing Sherlock speak as John read and re-read each post.

  
John happened to be in Maplin one day, in search of a new mobile phone charger as his charger had caught fire unexpectedly. Sherlock swore it was an accident, but John had his doubts. Box in hand, John idly browsed the aisles with the vague idea of pricing laptop cases. And he saw the voice recorders. He got all the way to the till with a reasonably priced digital one (‘Lightweight and small enough to fit inside any pocket!’ the back copy proclaimed) when his brain caught up with him. Panicking, he set it down on a display of memory cards and paid for the charger.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea sat at the back of his mind, always there, and slowly consumed his other thoughts until it was all John could think about. Three days later he returned to the shop and purchased it. He told himself it would be useful for any number of things—dictating blog posts, interesting sounds, plays on Radio Four—but he knew what it was really for.

Once home, perusing the instruction manual, John sternly told himself that he wouldn’t actually use it. Not for _that_ , anyway. But John knew he lied.

He carried it round in his pocket for a week before he finally worked up the nerve to turn on the machine. The first time he reached in his pocket and pressed ‘Record’ he felt a frisson of guilt, the final cry from his almost-buried conscience. This was quickly forgotten in light of the best orgasm he’d had, when he played back the recording that night.

He had to buy headphones for the recorder as well so Sherlock wouldn’t hear, and then it was even better. Like the other man’s voice was inside his head, and John could easily imagine Sherlock telling him to stroke himself slowly, to insert a finger there...

Soon John was concentrating instead upon finding the best places to hide the recording device, so as to have the best sound quality. He had nearly two hours’ worth of sound files, arranged in chronological order. Number twelve was a particular favourite, for the way Sherlock’s voice lovingly caressed the word ‘imbeciles’ as he berated an entire forensics team for accidentally destroying evidence.

  
John knew what he was doing was deeply unhealthy. The days turned into weeks, which turned into months. But it felt so good. And he couldn’t stop.

  
In hot pursuit of a suspect one evening, John blindly followed Sherlock into what turned out to be a supply closet. In the confusion they somehow became locked in together, and oh, the irony. Sherlock had pounded on the walls at first, bemoaning the lack of signal on his mobile. From there he quickly moved on to where they could find the suspect once they’d got out, and how he knew exactly where the missing diadem had been hidden. Then he went on to one of his favourite subjects, listing the gross incompetency of the Metropolitan Police in detail, and thank fuck he was so distracted, really.

Because all John could think about was that there were no lights in the closet. Sherlock was right there, and there was no escape. All he had in the pitch darkness was Sherlock’s voice, filling the air around him with intensity. It wasn’t just hearing it that was the problem; John could _feel_ it, down to his bones. And John had developed his very own Pavlovian reaction to the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

It surrounded John, and he was drowning in the resonant hum. Distantly he heard himself make a small, broken noise, and Sherlock stopped speaking. John froze, waiting for Sherlock’s disgust and the devastating remark that would put a full stop to their friendship, a friendship that John had already warped beyond repair. John knew full well Sherlock’s revulsion was the least of what he, John, deserved.

Later John could never recall exactly how it happened, but somehow they were closer than before, pressed against each other. John didn’t think he moved and he didn’t think Sherlock moved, but the next thing he knew their flies were undone and they were rubbing deliciously against each other. And the entire time Sherlock was talking unceasingly, words rolling over each other, rising and falling, and John had to concentrate on what he was saying.

“So fucking frustrated, I love it, and this is the part where you always arch your back and sigh, sigh for me, John...” Sherlock gasped for air raggedly, gripping John’s hips hard enough to bruise. His own hips dug into John’s, sharp and insistent, reinforcing his need. He was still speaking, the rumble dragging John down, down, down, and he never wanted to come up for air. There was more pressure, and more, and more, and then it was just this side of too much and John exploded, losing his shaky grip on reality. He came back to himself to hear Sherlock’s whine and feel him moving frantically against John, teetering on the edge.

“Say my name, John, say it say it,” Sherlock panted, aching for release.

John stood on tiptoe, sliding up the other man’s body, and whispered “Sherlock,” in the other man’s ear. And that was all it took.

  
When Sherlock next spoke it was almost back to the businesslike tone he employed when on a case, but with rather more breathiness than usual. John wanted nothing more than to do what that voice commanded, especially if it involved sucking Sherlock’s cock. Maybe if there had been a bit more room in the closet—

Sherlock fumbled with something jangly, then opened the closet door. The light from the hall fell in a diagonal stripe across his satisfied expression.

“Sensory deprivation,” he explained, waving a set of keys in his hand. “Next time, we can just use a blindfold, of course, but the opportunity presented itself. Well, I say ‘presented itself,’ but I find it’s often easier to make your own luck. Tell me, how do you feel about being tied up? I know you can come in the space of four minutes without being touched, just from the sound of my voice. With my assistance, I’m certain we can narrow your time to a minute and a half.”

“Yes please,” John choked out, flat against the back wall of the closet and completely annihilated. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“You already have, in a way,” Sherlock said, and there was a different quality to his voice, something John hadn’t heard before. The normally confident tones were hesitant, halting. Could it be embarrassment?

“You see, I installed this camera in your bedroom several months ago...”

AND THEY HAD KINKY SEX FOREVER THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a writing exercise for me, as I'm not a descriptive author and I'd like to work on that.  
> After reading this, you can see that I still need to work on it. Title from David Bowie's [Sound and Vision](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6IJsAuUgSgc). This story has also been brought to you by Barry White's [Practice What You Preach](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=br-Dy3puDoc).


End file.
